


Blood and Whiskey

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Porn, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:31:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They shared everything, they shared hunts and wounds and whiskey, they even shared body heat and comfort on night’s like these when a long hunt gone bad reminded them a little too much of their own mortality and they just needed to remind themselves of the good parts that made it worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Whiskey

"All right, on three...."

Sam braced himself against Dean, hands firm, his brother’s body hot under him even through the cotton of a tee.

"One....."

The shoulder joint was popped back into place on one because Sam was a bitch and if Dean was bracing for it then that would just make it worse. Dean probably knew all this, but he still roared and cussed Sam out, wrenching out of his grasp and rolling the joint gingerly. Sam just stripped off his own shirt and poked at the gashes along his side, sitting down on the foot of the bed and waiting for Dean to come back once his hands were steady and he found the bottle of whiskey.

Dean knelt in front of him, Sam turning and lifting one arm up over his head, reaching for the opposite shoulder, exposing the full stretch of his side while he reached for the whiskey bottle with his free hand, after Dean had already taken a long pull on it. Sam would complain that Dean shouldn't be drunk for what he was about to do, but they had done this so many times before he knew Dean would barely be affected by the alcohol and even if he was it wouldn't affect his sutures.

Wincing as a liberal splash of diy antiseptic was poured down his side and wrapping his lips around the neck of the bottle for a sip while his brother's calloused fingers pulled skin back together and pushed the needle through, Sam vaguely wondered why they were still doing it like this. Alcohol maybe had some small benefit, maybe, but it was probably more a placebo effect, and they could probably just steal some actual medical supplies if they wanted. Not to mention Sam shouldn't be drinking when he was bleeding out because it would thin his blood. He knew all this, but it was how it had always been. Sam's first drink was when he was sixteen because he was getting stitched up by his brother after a werewolf hunt and Dad had passed him the bottle with a look in his eyes like 'welcome to the club son', like it was all this ritualistic machismo, and what the fuck was wrong with them.

"Sam, quit squirming."

Sam took a deep breath at stilled at his brother's deep voice. He didn't think he was squirming, maybe Dean's hands were just too slick with blood and whiskey and he couldn't hold the needle straight, or maybe his shoulder still ached. It was probably all of that actually. Not to mention Dean had a pretty nasty gash on a thigh that had ripped his jeans apart, but of course he insisted it wasn't too deep to need stitches. Sam should really pin him down and make sure of that once his side was taken care of.

Trying to keep his breath in his chest and not let his stomach expand down past the ribs where Dean was stitching, Sam sat still and counted the rings of the curtain hanging on the rod, counted the water stains on the ceiling, counted the wrinkles in Dean’s brow while he concentrated. It was over soon enough, a throbbing burn like barbed wire under his skin, but the whiskey was starting to work well enough in dulling it. When Dean rose to his feet with a stumble, Sam was up by his side, holding on to a hip. 

“Hey, you should let me sew up your thigh.”

“S’not that bad.” 

Dean pulled back and unbuckled his pants, wincing as they dropped and denim dragged over ragged skin. It looked pretty damn bad to Sam. Dean even poked at it with a grimace and sighed with resignation.

“Why don’t you help me bandage it.”

Sam was getting a wet towel from the bathroom and some supplies in a minute. Dean was still bleeding onto the chipped linoleum standing in the middle of the room with a slight sway as he swigged more whiskey. Sam went back to the bed he’d already bled on and perched at the foot with his thighs spread. 

“Here...”

Dean sidled up to him, standing sideways and pushing one knee up a little resting his shin on the edge of the bed so Sam could wrap long bandages around the hard muscles of his thigh and keep the blood from over spilling. Sam wiped him down first with the wash cloth, gave it a liberal splash of whiskey, pressed thick pads of gauze against the single long slice, and wrapped bandages round and round to tuck them in place. Once his task was finished, he pushed the whiskey bottle back into Dean’s hands, who took it gladly. The harsh light of the fluorescent bulb in the naked fixture overhead made his brother look sickly, too pale and sweaty, face drawn tight in pain and breath labored. He stayed close, one hand going to Sam’s shoulder to steady himself, leaning over. They stayed like this, passing the bottle back and forth until it was finished, Sam’s wide hands lingering on the good parts of Dean’s thighs, parts not covered in bandages and blood, fingers pushing up to dip under the hem of boxers. They shared everything, they shared hunts and wounds and whiskey, they even shared body heat and comfort on night’s like these when a long hunt gone bad reminded them a little too much of their own mortality and they just needed to remind themselves of the good parts that made it worth it.

Sam was waiting, he always waited, let Dean come to him, he knew his older brother had a harder time with their weird sort of unspoken but spoken in code sort of arrangement that had evolved from way too much time in each other’s personal space. He knew Dean thought of himself as a father figure, guardian, protector, he knew Dean worried too much about him, and maybe Sam was just selfish but he wanted to believe Dean had his own reasons, that Dean wanted it just as much even if he couldn’t really look at in the light and couldn’t really talk about it. Cause it was Dean who folded first with a “Turn out the lights Sammy.” Because they always did it in the dark.

It wasn’t just that part that surprised Sam. He had thought about his brother a lot, he watched his brother, he grew into puberty with only the more grown up, fit, confident older brother to observe as a constant. Sam watched him, maybe sometimes spied on him, how he flirted with women, how he treated them, always brash and arrogant and fully in control. It took Sam completely by surprise when Dean folded first and he was gentle, quiet, willing to give and far more vulnerable than Sam had ever seen him, than he ever wanted to see him in any other context. So this was fine. When it had to always be in the dark, had to be quiet. It itched under Sam’s skin, a desire to explain it and explore and figure out what it was between them, but he would take the awkward uncomfortable way they had to dance around each other any day to get these quiet nights rather than risk pushing Dean away.

So he went and turned out the lights, feeling his way back to the bed, the slight glow of a neon motel sign striping the far wall through the blinds, the occasional strobe of passing cars through the cracks. Dean was already naked when he got back, glimpses of dark skin still smeared with blood and dirt and whiskey, the white bandages on his thigh stark. Sam shrugged his pants down, hissing at the pull in his side, crawling onto the bed between Dean’s spread legs. Whiskey swirled in his mind, the pain making his body thrum, the arousal a taut set in his muscles, but it was all the unspoken things and their own codes passed between lips when they kissed hungry and tender like they could never be anywhere else in their lives. Because they were hunters and they were hard and they had no weakness, not for monsters, not to vics, not to anyone, they had a handful of different names and faces, different personas to wear, but this right here in the dark between their skin was something they only ever shared with each other. 

It was slow and sweet and all the things Sam never thought his brother was capable of anymore but he could always remember having been there at least for him. Leaving Dean’s bad thigh spread wide and lazy on the bed, he pressed the other up, sliding their bodies together, his brother’s calloused hands in his hair, on his shoulders, down his arms, constantly seeking reassurance and touch, contact and warmth. Quiet gasps, hushed murmurs, swallowed down with the sour of whiskey and the rust of blood, an affection so overwhelming it was painful, the crushing weight of inevitability between them but they could claim this night, one more at least, before the world went to shit again. 

Sam separated from Dean slowly, lowering himself down next to his brother and quickly wrapping long arms around his torso. If he didn't pull Dean up against him, curl around his brother protectively, twist their limbs up till he couldn't escape, then Dean would be out of there. Sam just wanted the contact for a little while longer, the warmth, wanted to pretend they weren't sick and twisted, just another couple cuddling after sex, not brother's grasping desperately for anything they could get their hands on in the dark that didn't end in pain. Sam knew Dean would be gone from the bed in the morning, probably gone in a few hours as soon Sam managed to fall asleep, and he would wake up to Dean in the shower or polishing guns at the table or maybe drinking and watching him quietly. 

No matter how many times he woke up to Dean watching him it never stopped being disconcerting, even though it was only another line in their unspoken code and Sam wouldn’t question it. Sam figured he should understand that, but he really couldn't bring himself to. But he knew why Dean was the way Dean was. He wouldn't bother his brother any more for not staying in bed with him. Sam knew Dean didn't sleep at all those nights, the second bed in the motel covered and unrumpled. And as soon as Sam was up, showered, and had inspected both their wounds they would leave the blood and cum stained sheets behind, an extra tip on the nightstand for the maid, another desperate night left behind them in the rearview mirror, but the farther they ran it seemed the more they started re-crossing old paths.


End file.
